


The Jolt

by fms_fangirl



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Helps if you're familiar with Little Women, M/M, Other, Reading Aloud, Workplace Relationship, not really friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William loses his spectacles and Grell helps him through a very strange day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jolt

Time is meaningless in the reapers’ realm. Day and night, Tuesday or Saturday, winter and summer—none of these exist. But it has been learned, throughout the millennia, that some sort of regulation, some sort of conformity to the norms of the human world increase efficiency and improves morale. Precisely how this is achieved, no one knows, but there exists a Shinigami so ancient that even Undertaker seems a babe in comparison, whose task it is to oversee this synchronization.

The old man—his name is lost in the mists of time and most suspect that he has forgotten it himself—bears the impressive job description of Chief Horologist, is generally referred to as the Timekeeper and nicknamed Father Time. He labours in a labyrinthine series of rooms, surrounded by clocks, charts and instruments of every description with the aid of a very slightly younger assistant. In spite of the best efforts of the Timekeeper, the Assistant Timekeeper and _his_ assistant, it becomes apparent, every few decades, that time is slipping out of control.

Normally, a few minutes lost or gained over the course of several months can be addressed without disruption, but, over the past years, days have stretched to twenty-six hours before the Timekeeper and his team notice. Nor has this been the least of the anomalies and, when they occur, major corrective action is necessary. All work in the realm ceases while time is suspended for hours or days—no one really can tell. Day and night can follow within minutes and the seasons change hourly until it is announced that another Major Horological Congruence has been achieved.

No one knows what happens in the human world during these periods. Does no one die? Everyone still gossips about the unfortunate reaper who had been trapped among the living several centuries earlier when one occurred and returned dazed and incapable of sensible speech for months afterwards. When asked, Undertaker merely cackled, tapped his nail against his teeth and said, “Peculiar things. That’s what happens.”

Unaccountable things happen in the realm as well. Possessions, lost for years, suddenly reappear. Strange items manifest themselves in homes and offices, which is how Ronald Knox became the proud owner of an iguana. Sometimes they disappear just as quickly—everyone is still convinced, however, that Pops had been tippling when he insisted he saw a giraffe in the Grim Reapers’ Library.

The inhabitants themselves are also affected. Friendships of decades can dissolve into bitter enmity with neither knowing the cause, a worker in Death Scythes had woken up speaking fluent Chinese, which wouldn’t have been too bad had he not forgotten how to speak English, and a venerable and respected Council member had been found calmly taking a bath in the ornamental fountain in front of the Administration building. As a result of all these strange happenings, the inhabitants of the realm refer to the time slips as the Jolt—since almost anything can be turned on its head at these times.

Which is why, even today, everyone insists that what happened to William and Grell has to be the outcome of a major Jolt because what else could explain such an unlikely turn of events?

XXXXXXXXXX

William, although he would never admit it, usually enjoyed the Jolt. He would lay in a stock of his favourite food and drink and shut himself up in his apartment to relax with his books and music until it was over. Disruptions to his own life had been minimal—the appearance of a child’s rubber bath toy shaped like a duck in his tub or some mild annoyance when an expensive steak vanished from his icebox to be replaced by something he later learned was called a pizza.

He believed that the majority of bizarre tales carried back to the Dispatch after every Jolt were the result of heavy imbibing. Every bar in the realm would fill as soon as a Jolt was announced and raucous parties usually ensued. As far as William was concerned, most inhabitants used the Jolt as an excuse to do as they pleased. Grell, for instance, had insisted that all of her work trousers had disappeared and had worn unsuitably short, scarlet skirts until she could replace them and he was convinced that Ronald had smuggled that creature back from the human world.

Perhaps the Assistant Timekeeper’s assistant needed an assistant of his own; this was the third major Jolt in as many years. The Council was murmuring that it was time to pension off Father Time and his assistant and plans were being laid for a new Bureau of Time Management—something to do with the increasing technological advances of the human world, which threatened to outstrip the realm in less than a century.

William had returned to his apartment at the end of his last shift before the announced Jolt and passed a peaceful evening. True, the sun—or what passed for it in the realm—had rose and set twice in the space of a few hours and his sleep had been disturbed by a sudden rattle of hailstones against his windows, but he woke feeling rested and looking forward to a quiet day, stretched out on his couch with a book. Until he fumbled on his night table for his spectacles and discovered that they had vanished.

He crept about carefully, feeling his way along the floor of his bedroom, but they were gone—swallowed by the time slip. This is not a disaster, he told himself firmly; he had a spare pair. All he had to do was locate them. Sitting on the floor, he leaned against his bed, tried to recall where he had last seen them and remembered, with a groan of frustration, that he had left them with Pops to have the lenses replaced after his eye exam last month. His student spectacles! They were no longer quite adequate, but would do for the moment. Except they were sitting in a drawer in his office.

Travel via portal was strictly forbidden and dangerous during a Jolt, even if he trusted his ability to accomplish it while half-blind. Did he dare attempt to walk to the office? It wasn’t far; he was familiar with every landmark along the way, but it gone black outside again and, given the slippery geography of the realm whenever a Jolt occurred, he knew it was impossible.

There was nothing to do but wait it out. He was in his own home; he would manage until it was over. With extreme care, he made his way to the bathroom, was able to attend to his most immediate need and even washed up. Dressing wasn’t that difficult; his penchant for extreme orderliness made everything easy to find, even in the greyed fog that surrounded him.

By the time he made it to his kitchen, he was feeling a touch smug while he tried to imagine Grell or Ronald coping in the same situation. He wouldn’t attempt to cook, but some bread and jam—he could accomplish that much, he was sure—would tide him over. But when his hand closed around the bread knife, he grasped it from the wrong side and sliced his palm open.

“Damn,” he muttered. It seemed to be bleeding quite heavily. It wasn’t as if he could bleed to death, but he was startled to realize that the dishtowel he wrapped around his injured hand had become soaked through within seconds. Already disoriented, he dropped a second towel on the floor and gave himself a resounding whack on the head against the counter top when he bent to retrieve it.

This was getting ridiculous. He felt sick and dizzy and his head was pounding. Sliding to a crouch on the floor, he cradled his wounded hand, trying to staunch the flow of blood and waited. The noises from outside were becoming alarming. The wind was blowing furiously and he could hear a low rumble of thunder in the distance. He felt useless, foolish and, he finally admitted, frightened.

What if the injury was severe enough to impede his ability to wield a Death Scythe? What if he had done permanent damage to his hand? Serious enough that he could no longer manage the endless paperwork required by his job? Of no further use to the Dispatch, would he spend the rest of eternity in some sort of limbo, unable to earn his redemption?

He was panicking. He was becoming overwrought. He was behaving like Grell, he told himself sternly. But, at the very least, his hand needed to be cleaned and bound. He had gauze, bandages and antiseptic in his bathroom, which, at the moment, seemed miles away. Attempting to stand, he was overcome with a wave of nausea and completed his humiliation by being violently sick all over himself.

He was utterly helpless. Hopeless without his spectacles, his hand throbbing and a tremendous lump forming on his forehead. His landlord had blithely departed for a Jolt party just as he returned home the day before and the other flat in the house was empty.

There was one other option; it was his only choice. Resting on his coffee table was a small black device, given to him and several senior agents a week earlier by the Research department. Grell had laughed scornfully at the notion of summoning—or paging, as they called it—another agent in an emergency. Only the threat of demotion had made her agree to keep it on her person at all times. Even William had thought it unnecessary, but kept his opinions to himself.

Would it function during a Jolt? Would anyone respond? Would anyone be willing or able to venture forth? He crawled across the floor to the living room and peered at it. The small display panel glowed green, suggesting that it was working. He pushed a button and waited. The panel lit up a moment later, but went blank in an instant.

Finally managing to stand, William tottered over to his front door and unlocked it, stubbing his toe painfully on the leg of his coffee table. He should attempt to clean himself up, he thought and made his way slowly to the bathroom. His fingers were trembling as he clumsily tried to unbutton his shirt. Finally, he gave up and stood, gripping the sink until he was able to turn on the tap, splash some water on his face and rinse out his mouth.

A loud knock sounded at his door.

“Come in,” he called, hoping to be heard over the thunder.

Oddly enough, he was almost _glad_ it was Grell who burst into his bathroom. At least he could see her; any other agent would have been an amorphous blob of black.

“William!” she cried. “Are you all right? Whatever happened to you?”

“Lost my glasses,” he mumbled. “Cut my hand . . . bumped my head. Not feeling very well,” he said thickly as he began to sway.

Grell’s arm was around him in an instant—something he had never imagined he would feel grateful for—and she guided him to sit on the commode. Without a word, she tossed her coat to the floor and wet a cloth. She bathed his face and neck, carefully avoiding the swelling lump on his forehead.

“Let me take a look at your hand,” she murmured, unwrapping the towel. “That does look nasty. You should have the doctor look at it after this is over. I’ll clean and bandage it for now.”

The antiseptic stung; he couldn’t help catching his breath and wincing. “Sorry, dear,” she said briskly, “it can’t be helped.” But her fingers were gentle as she cleaned the wound and wrapped his hand. “I’ll fetch you some clean clothes.”

She reappeared with a fresh shirt and trousers and unbuttoned his shirt and opened his cuffs. William braced himself for a suggestive remark; she was undressing him, after all, but she handed him the wet face cloth and said, “I’ll let you wash up on your own. Call if you need help.”

William wasn’t blind to Grell’s good qualities. Above her skill in the field, he knew she was intensely loyal and could be very generous, but he had never hoped to find her thoughtful and discreet, which gave him the confidence to admit that he would require help in fastening his trousers and buttoning his shirt.

“Of course,” she said, accomplishing the task quickly and without comment. She led him from the bathroom. “Can I fetch you anything? Some coffee or tea? It’s early, I know, but you’ve had quite a morning. Would you care for something stronger?”

“A coffee, if you don’t mind.” He was thrumming with the need for his morning cup. “Did you have any difficulty getting here?” he asked as she made her way to the kitchen. “Is there anything remarkable going on out there?”

“It’s dreadfully windy. All the leaves have blown off the trees, but I didn’t notice anything too strange,” she replied while starting his coffee maker. “Personally, I think half the tales people tell are invented. Strange things happen, I know, but I still don’t believe that ridiculous story about the mermaid in the fountain.”

“Nor do I,” he said, gratefully sipping at the cup she handed him. “Could I impose upon you a little further? If it’s not too bad outside, would you consider fetching my student spectacles from my desk?”

“I’d be happy to, except they’re not there, dear. Don’t you remember? Pops went on a rampage about three months ago and demanded all the student specs be returned.”

She was right. He slapped his hand against his forehead and immediately regretted it.

“I’d lend you my spares, but I don’t think they’d help. See?”

She perched her own spectacles on his nose for an instant. It was useless—if anything, worse, he thought, handing them back to her.

“Sorry, darling, but you do have the worst eyesight in the Dispatch. Pity security is so tight around Spectacles or else I’d try to filch yours.”

“Please don’t. You’ve been an immense help. I wouldn’t want to see you get into trouble on my account. I’m sure I can manage for another day or so.”

“Very well,” she replied, “but you must be hungry. I noticed you have sausages and bacon on hand.”

“Some toast or a sandwich will suffice,” he answered, thinking longingly of the large cooked breakfast he had planned. But he could just make her out in his kitchen, rummaging through his cupboards.

“Don’t be silly,” she said shortly. “I’ll make you a proper breakfast. You deserve a treat.”

He could hardly storm into the kitchen and wrest the frying pan from her hand and, now that his stomach had settled, he was ravenous. Soon, the apartment was filled with the enticing aroma of bacon and toasting bread. Apart from an inquiry as to how he would like his eggs, she worked in silence and set a plate down on his table.

“Do you need some help getting to the table?” she asked.

“I think I can manage,” William replied, slowly crossing the small space across his living room. His stomach was growling in anticipation and he fell on the food hungrily. “Has this Jolt inconvenienced you at all?” he asked between greedy bites.

“Not really,” she answered. “I’ve no power at the moment so it’s a bit dull at my flat, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

He suddenly realized she was leaning against his counter, watching him eat. “No power? How have you been managing? Have you eaten at all today?”

“I was able to fix myself a bite this morning. I’m not likely to starve.”

“Honestly Grell! Why didn’t you say something? There’s more than enough. Help yourself. It’s the least I can do under the circumstances.”

“I will admit that bacon smells awfully nice and I’d kill for a cup of coffee. Do you mind if I fry myself a couple of your eggs?”

He gestured impatiently at her while he mopped up his own egg yolk with a slice of toast. “You were at home when I contacted you, then,” he said as she refilled his cup. “I thought you would have been at one of the parties.” He knew that the Dispatch had taken over a nearby bar as soon as the Jolt had been announced.

“I used to go to the parties,” she said, sitting at the table with her own plate, “but not for the past few years. If you ask me, everyone uses the Jolt as an excuse to behave badly.” Suddenly, her voice became hard. “And I don’t need any excuses as anyone will tell you.”

The business a few years ago with Agent Warren . . . William recalled.

She seemed to read his thoughts. “If Leo wanted a bit of the strange, he should have just said so. _Everyone_ knows that I’m always up for a bit of fun,” she said scornfully. “But to blame it on the Jolt . . . ”

William had heard rumours of money changing hands afterwards, but had ignored that and other gossip about what had happened. He had no desire to learn the unsavoury details of his subordinates’ private lives—especially Grell’s. But it hadn’t been so easy to ignore her strained, white face in the days following and he had gladly signed off on Agent Warren’s transfer to the new branch in America.

“And you didn’t really believe all my trousers vanished last year, did you?” she continued.

“Not really,” he said, an unwilling smile crossing his face.

“I simply couldn’t resist a chance to show off my divine legs,” she giggled, refilling his cup.

He sipped his coffee. The sight of Grell’s long and surprisingly slim legs had been . . . distracting, until he ordered her to go home and change into something more suitable.

“So, dear,” she said, clearing away their plates, “I’ll wash up now. What if I make you some sandwiches and leave them on the counter before I toddle off? You should be able to find them easily enough.”

“Must you go?” he asked without thinking. “What I mean is if you’ve nowhere you have to be . . . and your flat cannot be too comfortable at the moment and . . . ” He was stammering, trying to cover his confusion at the sudden realization that he didn’t want her to leave.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be eager for my presence.”

She was laughing, but it sounded false to his ears. He automatically reached up to adjust his glasses. “Be sensible, Grell! Honestly! You have no power, no means of preparing food.” The wind was blowing even harder and the sky was streaked with sudden flashes of lightning. “Although your journey here was without incident, you may not be able to return home so easily. It is only logical that you remain.”

“Of course,” she said without emotion. “We should be sensible.”

She was a scarlet blur in his kitchen, but she was banging the cupboard doors shut with unnecessary force. He took a deep breath and said what he knew she wanted to hear. “I am at a considerable disadvantage at the moment. I would appreciate your help.”

“Well . . . ” she said slowly. “I would hate to see you hurt yourself again.”

“And I would enjoy some company.” It hadn’t been nearly as difficult to say as he had thought. Somehow, today, Grell wasn’t nearly as annoying as usual. The exuberance and flamboyance that normally left him irritated and exhausted were gone. She had been kind, thoughtful and considerate of his needs. To allow her to return to a cold and dark flat under potentially hazardous conditions would be poor repayment.

“Very well,” she replied. “Why don’t you go lie down on the couch and close your eyes? Stop trying to see. You must be giving yourself an awful headache. And I’ll fetch a cold cloth for your forehead. See if we can’t bring down that bump a bit.”

A few minutes later, William was stretched out on the couch with a cool cloth draped soothingly over his forehead. He could feel the weight of Grell’s gaze upon him. “You’re staring at me,” he muttered. “Please don’t.”

“Sorry, dear,” she laughed softly. “It’s just that you look so much like you did the day of our final exam, without your spectacles and with your hair all ruffled. It’s the first time in nearly a century I’ve seen you look anything but immaculate.”

“I never thanked you for your actions that day, did I?” he said quietly. “I would have failed but for you.”

He could hear her disdainful sniff. “We would have both failed,” she said bluntly, “had we not gotten the young man’s soul. I don’t know what happens to candidates who fail, but I’d rather not find out.”

“They are sent for another term of instruction and given an opportunity to take the exam again,” he replied. “Those who fail a second time will perform manual labour to earn their redemption. But it would have been a black mark on both of our records had we been forced to retake the exam. You would never have made senior agent and I certainly wouldn’t be Supervisor today.”

She was attending to her nails, he could tell. The rasp of the file was setting his nerves on edge, but he didn’t feel as if he could ask her to stop.

“But you have thanked me over the years.”

“How?” His relationship with Grell had always been stormy—and a source of regret. He didn’t _enjoy_ whacking her with his Death Scythe or dragging her about by her hair. He took no pleasure in stamping on her face. But he resented her ability to get under his skin, the ease with which she could force him to lose control of himself.

“You didn’t stand in the way of my promotion, even though you dislike me. And you defended me to the Council when I was brought up for discipline after Jack the Ripper. I know what they were planning for me. You could have had a thorn permanently removed from your side. Anyhow,” she said, abruptly changing the subject, “would you like me to read aloud to you for a little while? It would pass the time.”

“Would you?” The conversation was drifting into dangerous waters; he’d rather not to reflect too deeply on the nature of his feelings for Grell.

“Why not? Is there anything you’d prefer?”

“Whatever you would like. The books are over there.” He gestured in the direction of his shelves and heard her muttering softly as she rejected one volume after another.

“All right,” she said. “Comfy? Do you need a drink or a trip to the water closet before I begin?”

“I’m fine.”

“Very well then.” She began to read. “‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,’ grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.”

“ _Little Women_? That’s the book you chose?” William exclaimed.

“Why not?” she asked sharply. “It’s a nice story. I didn’t think you would want anything too stressful or exciting in your present condition. Would you like me to pop out and see if I can find a copy of _Venus in Furs_?” Her voice had a slight edge.

“Of course not! I’m just a little surprised.”

“That I should be familiar with such a nice, wholesome book? I’m rather fond of this story, if you must know.” She started to read again.

He began to relax until she reached one line, early in the first chapter. “‘... It’s bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy’s games and work and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy.’ Poor Jo!” she sighed.

And he suddenly understood her fondness for the story. Her voice washed over him. She read for about an hour, until she reached the end of the fourth chapter. “I need to take a little break,” she said, standing and stretching. She called to him, over the running water from his bathroom, “Is it all right if I make a pot of tea? I’m a bit parched.”

“By all means,” he answered. “I’ll just make a quick trip in there when you’re done.”

He found his way to the bathroom with little trouble. Perhaps, now that the panic of the morning had subsided, his confidence in moving about without his spectacles was increasing. It took him a few minutes longer than usual, fussing with his flies one-handed, but he was able to accomplish it without calling for help. He peered at himself in the mirror. Even his blurred reflection showed that Grell was right; his hair was standing on end. Automatically, he reached for his comb to tame it and suddenly set it aside.

She handed him a mug of tea and placed a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. “Shall I continue?”

“In a minute. You’re doing a marvellous job, bringing the story to life.”

“Well, dear,” she sniffed, “I always told you I am a superb actress. You don’t think I’m making Beth sound too sickly sweet, do you? She’s such a _good_ girl—not really the type of character I’m familiar with.”

“Maybe a little,” he said, sipping his tea, “but I do like that prissy voice you’ve given Amy and Laurie sounds just like Knox.”

“Oh, you noticed. It seemed fitting. Carefree . . . good-hearted . . . looking for fun, but quite sweet beneath the surface.”

He had also noticed that hot-tempered, reckless Jo, who blundered about so awkwardly ill at ease in her own skin, sounded closest to Grell’s own voice. And he had noticed something else.

“When you read the letter from their father . . . he sounded like me.”

“I hadn’t quite intended to do that. It just happened. Obviously, I don’t look upon you as a father figure, darling.”

For the first time that day, her voice had taken on the suggestive, flirtatious lilt that always raised his hackles and made him shiver with irritation. He could see her shark-like teeth gleaming in a mocking smile.

“He’s the head of the household,” William said uncomfortably. “I guess it’s suitable.”

“No,” she replied bluntly. “He’s never there. Even when he returns. His daughters, especially Jo, love him beyond all reason. He doles out tiny drops of praise and encouragement, but spends most of his time among his books, criticizing and judging everything they do in the name of fatherly guidance. Jo slaves for his approval and is almost always told she can do better.”

“Maybe she can do better,” he burst out. “Maybe her father recognizes her talent, but realizes that she is too bold and willful for her own good. Maybe it’s the only way he can show how much he truly cares about her.”

She was silent for a moment. “Perhaps, he should say so, rather than delivering the verbal equivalent of a whack on the head,” she said quietly.

“Or she should understand that dramatic protestations of love are meaningless,” he shot back. “Her father loves her and he is proud of her. He tries to curb her because she only hurts herself. She is fierce and bold and wild and it breaks his heart to know how unhappy she is, to see her constantly bring grief down upon herself.”

“This is getting into a rather violent discussion about a children’s book,” Grell said with a shrill laugh. “Perhaps I should have selected _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_. Maybe next time.” She picked up the book and began to read.

William lay back, his head spinning. Did she not recall that she had turned away from him first—mocked him at their first meeting before the examiners and rejected his initial overture? He _had_ been looking forward to working with her, in spite of his uneasiness at the notion of being paired with the volatile and unpredictable Grell Sutcliff. _She_ had been the one to complain, to call him less than a man and to provoke him beyond all endurance.

Had she paid no heed to what he just said? Things ruthlessly held back for close to a century. Since the day when a mop of wild red hair had turned the tumblers to unlock the disused chamber of his heart and slammed it shut a moment later with a sneer. For almost a century he had smarted under the weight of her unwanted, _false_ declarations; repelled them with blows and scorn and searched for a grain of truth in them.

And, sometimes, he thought he spotted it. At the party after the London fires—she had thanked him for restoring her Death Scythe, her eyes shining with joy. But he had let the moment slip away and she had thrown herself into the party, teasing and flirting with Undertaker and the others. His dreams had been haunted by her that night—gleefully swinging her Scythe while her hair streamed wildly about her. Or today.

He was lost in his thoughts until her voice broke in. “William! Are you even listening?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then what was the last thing that happened?”

“Er—Amy was punished for bringing pickled limes to school.”

“That was two chapters ago!” she exclaimed impatiently. “But you’re looking very tired. How’s your hand?”

“A bit sore.”

“And your head must be aching. The lump is going down, but it must be exhausting, without your spectacles. Go lie down for an hour and I’ll fix us a meal,” she ordered.

He was too dazed to argue. His head was aching dully and his mind was still reeling from their earlier conversation. He punched his pillows in annoyance, trying to get comfortable. Only Grell could turn the reading of a simple children’s novel into a source of discomfort. Only Grell could get past his defences and make him say things that should be left unsaid. And only Grell could inhabit his thoughts and possess his dreams.

But today, she had been kind and gentle and even sweet. Given him a glimpse of what lay beneath the brash and outrageous face she presented to the world. Given him an instant of hope . . .

Her voice disturbed his sleep. “William, dear, you’ve been sleeping for more than two hours.”

He sat up and groggily rubbed his face. “What time is it?” Late afternoon sun was forcing its way through a chink in his curtains.

“It’s after four. The weather’s settled down finally. I think the Jolt might be finished. Things look as if they’ve returned to normal.” She crossed the room to open his curtains and burst into laughter. “William!” she shrieked. “Your spectacles! They’re sitting on the window sill.”

He gratefully seized them from her and placed them on his nose.

“They must have reappeared at some point today.”

“They didn’t,” he groaned, clutching his hair in frustration. “Last night, during the hailstorm, I got up to close the window. I must have left them on the ledge and blamed the Jolt when I couldn’t find them this morning. I feel like such a fool.”

“I’m sure you do, but it’s understandable.” She was smiling, but there was no malice in her expression. “Come and eat. I found some mince and potatoes and made a cottage pie with peas and there’s strawberries and cream for after.”

He retreated to the bathroom, where he washed his face and examined the bump on his head. It seemed to be going down; only a bruise should be visible by tomorrow, he thought. This time, he did comb his hair; his nap had made it even wilder than earlier.

Grell was dishing out the meal when he joined her in the kitchen to take a bottle of wine from a cupboard. “I think we deserve it,” he said with a slight smile. “You certainly do, if you wouldn’t mind opening it.” She took the bottle and corkscrew from him while he fetched glasses. “I was planning cottage pie tonight. How did you guess?”

“Really, William!” she snorted. “How long have I known you? We haven’t shared that many meals, but I do know that you like plain, old-fashioned food. Just like you know how much milk I like in my tea.” She took a seat at the table and poured the wine.

“Or like I know that you can’t abide blood pudding, which I always thought rather strange, considering . . . ”

“Or that I know that baked beans give you flatulence.”

“They do not!”

“Yes, they do,” she giggled. “I remember the morning you and I and Ronald had a full breakfast at that café near the Dispatch. We were stuck in the office with a mountain of paperwork after a typhoid outbreak. Pooh!” She waved her hand in front of her face.

He felt himself flush. “It must have been Knox. I’m sure it was.”

“If you say so, darling,” she grinned and raised her glass. “Cheers.”

“Yes. Cheers. And Grell . . . ”

“Yes dear.”

“Thank you for not laughing at me earlier.”

“It is amusing, I will admit, but don’t worry. I won’t say anything. I know how embarrassed you must feel.”

“Unfortunately, it won’t be that simple.” He took a sip of his wine. “We both have to fill out lengthy reports, since I activated that device.”

“You could always blame it on the Jolt.”

“But you responded. There’s a record of it.”

She shrugged. “Then I’ll say I received an agent in distress signal. Came here and found you with an injured hand and a potentially nasty bump on your head. I gave what aid I could. There’s no need to mention your spectacles.”

He stared at her. Why was she being so reasonable? Why couldn’t she always be so reasonable?

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. “Or don’t you trust me to keep my mouth shut? I’ve never said a word about what really happened at the exam.”

“That’s not true!” he retorted. “You tease me and carry on about it all the time. Oh!” he cried in a vicious parody of her voice, “From below! Face to face! And from behind! I thought for sure my body would give way!”

“I’ve kept silent for decades about how you lost your spectacles! How _you_ almost lost the soul! The other—that wasn’t important.”

Not important. “So, you finally admit that all those years of melodramatic declarations of love have been nothing but a game to you. That I’ve never been anything but the boring, average dullard you called me back then. You really are a superb actress,” he added with a mirthless laugh.

She had gone very pale, but two hectic spots of colour stood out on her cheeks. “There’s no pleasing you, is there, William?” she said softly. “Do I love you or don’t I? Which do you want to hear?”

His fork clattered onto his plate and he took a large gulp of his wine. “The truth.”

“I should have left your spectacles on the windowsill.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That even with your spectacles, you’re the blindest man I know. Now, I find that I don’t really have much appetite for strawberries, so I’ll leave them for you.” She stood abruptly. “Since your hand is bandaged, I’ll wash up before I go.”

“Blind!” he sputtered. “ _You_ were the one who made fun of me in front of the exam committee! _You_ were the one who wanted nothing to do with me when we first met! It’s never been anything but some sick game to you.” He followed her into the kitchen. “You spout ridiculous claims of love, but you push me and provoke me and force me, until I lash out at you. Until I hurt you. Is that what you really like? Then you’re a bigger freak than even I believed!”

Grell caught her breath and went very still for an instant. With great deliberation, she wiped the last plate and placed it on the draining board. “I’ll run along now,” she said. “You needn’t bother seeing me out.”

Her shoulders were shaking as she retrieved her coat from a chair where she had tossed it earlier. She was snarling in frustration while she tried to poke her arm through one of sleeves, turned inside out.

William stared at her helplessly. To let her go would destroy whatever tenuous relationship they had even now, but how to make her stay? How to make her understand? How to make her speak the truth for once? “I—I shouldn’t have said that,” he stammered.

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

Her eyes were dull and empty and her jaw was stubbornly clenched. He recalled seeing that same expression when he hauled her back to the Dispatch after she had slain Madam Red and knew that, in that instant, she was killing whatever feelings she had for him. He had only a moment or she would be lost to him forever. For one wild second, he thought of rushing across the room and seizing her into his arms, but she would probably tear him to pieces.

“Grell! Don’t go! Please!”

He reached up, plucked his spectacles from his nose and tossed them across the room.

She was a blur of crimson as she marched towards the door, her coat flying out behind her. His fists were clenched and he held his breath, waiting to hear the door slam, when she whirled to face him. He couldn’t see her face, but her hair streamed wildly about her as she stalked across the room, retrieved his glasses and rested them on his nose.

“Oh William!” she whispered shakily, ruffling his hair. “You must take care of your glasses.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“I was unkind to you,” she insisted half an hour later, seated on his couch. “I was furious at being paired with someone so–”

“Average? Dull?”

“Forgive me, darling, but yes.” She raised her eyes to his face. “When you first came into this existence, what were your true feelings?”

“Anger,” he replied automatically. “I was angry that I had failed at finding oblivion—just as I had failed at everything in my life.”

“I was frightened and terribly confused. I had spent my human life knowing I wrong, knowing that I was some sort of an abomination until I couldn’t bear it any longer. Suddenly, it didn’t matter—or it mattered less. I had strength and abilities I’d never imagined; some even called me a god. But it might all be snatched away if I failed the exam, for all I knew. And as far as you were concerned . . . ”

“I was entirely ordinary and boring. Unable to milk you for all you were worth, I believe you said.”

“Please, try to understand. I was just beginning to come to terms with the notion that I might be able to live as I chose, that I no longer had to fear the gallows or prison. I wanted to _live_ , to experience everything. You hardly seemed a likely candidate to give me that.”

“But you were proclaiming your love for me only a few weeks later. Did you really mean it?”

“Honestly, no. How could I? But, by then, you intrigued me. You were so solemn and stern. I wanted to get under that smooth, unruffled surface and make you lose control and when you did . . . ” She grinned at him. “I began to look at you differently. True love came later. When I saw how hard you work, how you devote yourself to being the best you can. I admired and respected you first, even when I dreamt of you losing control and ravishing me.”

“You had a damned odd way of showing it.” And her comment troubled him. “You didn’t really want me to take you by force, I hope.”

“No, but I used to imagine you caught up in a swelling wave of passion, unable to help yourself as you declared your undying love for me.” She began to giggle. “Sorry, dear, but I’m always going to be hopelessly dramatic.”

“And I’m always going to be dull and boring, but . . . ” He fumbled for the words, held back for ninety years. “You will never know how often I wanted to shake you until you spoke the truth. Sometimes, I could feel your eyes on me, see your expression and wonder. You mocked me and poked fun at me; you revelled in embarrassing me and tormenting me. You flirt with every man you meet. How could I believe you were capable of genuine love?”

“And you would have had me believe you were made of stone. Until today.”

“You did find me somewhat vulnerable,” he said with a sheepish smile, “but you were kind and thoughtful, in a way I’d never imagined, but, somehow, always hoped you could be.”

“Because you needed my help,” she replied. “For the first time since the exam you needed more from me than my ability with a Death Scythe. Agent Lennox was outside your door when I arrived. He was at a party only a few minutes from here. I sent him away. If another agent had been here when I came in, I would have thrown him out the window.”

“You might have found my spectacles earlier,” he chuckled.

“But think of all the fun we would have missed,” she grinned.

“Do you remember the end of the book?” he asked. “Jo and the Professor in the rain.”

She nodded.

“You think I’m like Mr March and, perhaps, I am, but I am similar to the Professor in some ways. I’m plain and dull and unexciting. I have nothing to give you but a full heart and empty hands.”

Grell placed her hands in William’s and leaned forward, murmuring, “Not empty now.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Thanks to the efforts of the new Bureau of Time Management, major Jolts are a thing of the past. Time slips are addressed during a quarterly Minor Correction and, with a few exceptions, truly odd occurrences have ceased. This, probably, has more to do with the new directive that any strange happenings require the completion of a fifteen-page report and the closing of all bars during these few hours. The decree from Management that all agents must report to the Dispatch office and remain until the Correction has ended has also very likely contributed to this new state of affairs.

So, four times a year, the entire Dispatch assembles and gloomily laments the parties of the old days while glaring resentfully at the Supervisor’s closed office door.

“It’s not fair,” one grumbles, dodging a paper dart tossed at him, “ _they_ sit in there together, cosy as anything, while we sit about twiddling our thumbs.” For Grell has been summoned to William’s office, as she is at the beginning of every Correction.

“What do you think they get up to all this time?” asks another. “You don’t suppose . . . ”

He ducks from a barrage of rubber bands snapped at him and the rest howl with laughter at the notion of their stern Supervisor engaging in inappropriate conduct in the office.

“It’s far too quiet in there,” puts in a third. “Grell’s probably a screamer.”

“I told you what I saw,” Ronald says, putting his arms up to shield himself from the onslaught of crumpled paper and pencils flung at his head. “I swear, I walked in on them.”

“Shut up, Ronald,” one calls out. “As if.”

As if it were possible that Ronald had discovered William stretched out on his small settee with his head in Grell’s lap, his spectacles resting on his desk, while she read aloud to him.

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the OVA and I realized that Grell rejected William first, which, I think, puts an interesting spin on their relationship.


End file.
